


from the ashes of what we might be

by brinnanza



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (it's offscreen and in the past bc I cannot help myself), Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Guilt, I THINK ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Missing Scene, RQG 94: Justice, al-tahangst, because i do - Freeform, y'all ever think about how hamid went to bed certain his friends would abandon him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25493182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: It’s strange, Hamid thinks idly, lying awake in his childhood bedroom. It’s been nearly ten years, and yet it seems the intervening years haven’t granted him any additional wisdom. He is taller, certainly, a bit broader; the bed doesn’t quite fit as well as it used to, but he feels as though he’s fifteen years old again, dreading the sunrise that will steal away every fragile scrap of familiarity and stability he has.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	from the ashes of what we might be

**Author's Note:**

> what is UP ya boi is BACK. 
> 
> this takes place between 94 and 95, the evening after hamid and grizzop's moral argument about the nature of justice and punishment. I love grizzop very much but I will physically fight him over that argument and I do not care if he shoots my knees off.
> 
> anyway it's just angst lads, absolutely no comfort at all. title is from the mech's pieces
> 
> **CW: very brief mention of (offscreen, past) child abuse; stay safe folks

It’s strange, Hamid thinks idly, lying awake in his childhood bedroom. It’s been nearly ten years, and yet it seems the intervening years haven’t granted him any additional wisdom. He is taller, certainly, a bit broader; the bed doesn’t quite fit as well as it used to, but he feels as though he’s fifteen years old again, dreading the sunrise that will steal away every fragile scrap of familiarity and stability he has.

He’s not crying, not anymore. He’d sobbed himself to sleep just as he’d done so many nights before in this house, but he’d kept jerking awake, buzzing with adrenaline as snatches of nightmares faded into smoke. They’d been so vivid - Grizzop with his bow drawn, eyes hard and cold, telling Hamid that this is justice. Sasha’s grey and haggard face, the dull resignation in her voice. The faces of those students, of the dean, screaming in agony and recrimination. Years of his father’s stinging slaps and harsh words.

Now, he has given up on sleep in favor of staring at the familiar ceiling. An almost comforting numbness has settled over him, and even as Grizzop’s words continue to circle round his tired mind, he feels detached from them, like they’re about someone else. He’s sure Sasha would have something to say about that, the rich banker’s son slipping blame even within his own head.

But that’s not quite accurate. He does know, in a distant, objective sort of way, what blames lies squarely on his own shoulders like an old, familiar millstone. He couldn’t forget that if he tried, can’t slip the guilt that burns under his skin every single waking moment and follows him down into every nightmare. He has tried so hard to make up for those mistakes, but of course Grizzop is right - no amount of money or heroics will bring back those students, the dean.

It won’t bring back Aziza.

Even now, after the funeral and the chaos that followed, there is a part of Hamid that can’t quite believe she’s really gone. He only saw her rarely, when she happened to be performing in London or he could spare a day or two to travel. She could well be somewhere on the other side of the world, alive, music following in her footsteps. Any day now he’ll receive a letter, a program, a ticket stub. Some concrete reminder of his beloved sister that he can hold in his hands. Some indication that she is alive, that she’s happy.

Nothing is coming, of course. Despite what people tend to think of him, Hamid is not quite that naive; optimism, however unlikely, does not blind him to reality. Aziza is gone, and Bertie is gone, and in the morning, when he works up the courage to bring his own sins into the light, Grizzop and Sasha and Azu will be gone too.

It’s what he deserves, probably. He wants so desperately to fix something, anything, for once in his life, but every attempt only ever leads to more broken things, broken people. Liliana was right, of course; he won’t burn the world to ash and laugh at its ruin, not like Gideon, but his hands will only ever sow destruction. How fitting, then, that those hands so easily become claws, all the better for ripping and rending and tearing.

But he’ll tell them the truth, at least, of the crimson spilled across his past. He’ll let them pass their judgement, deem him unworthy. Grizzop will want to have him arrested, won’t hear the details for the broad strokes. He might once have hoped for understanding from Sasha, whose own past is far from sterling, but he can hardly expect her to bother with nuance with her own destruction looming on the horizon. He doesn’t know Azu that well, not yet and now probably not ever, but she’d made her position quite clear. If Saleh doesn’t deserve a second chance, than Hamid certainly doesn’t.

He wonders vaguely is this is how death row is meant to feel, panic giving over to dull acceptance. It’s not the same thing, of course, but come morning, something surely is dying here, some trust or faith he thought he’d earned. He’d never quite believed himself worthy of friendship before, the real kind that is forged in fire and kindness rather than cruelty and proximity, and perhaps he’d been right about that all along. If justice is people getting what they deserve, he can hardly deny that he does not deserve real friends, at the very least.

He can’t outrun his mistakes, can’t seem to repent for them or repair their damage, not even with all the money and power at his disposal. Perhaps Grizzop is right, then, that accepting his punishment, whatever that entails, with whatever grace he can muster, is the most worthwhile thing he can do with his life.

At least he’s used to being alone.


End file.
